Midnight, the Stars, and You
by UnCon
Summary: "Anthony, there are certain things Starks' are predisposed for: genius and alcoholism." A warning in on itself, he should have kept those words closer to his heart, should have broken the vicious cycle, but how can you battle what you have been predisposed to withstand?
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers**

**Midnight, the Stars, and You**

"_There are two paths on this road of life, Tony, only two paths!"_

"_Two? Why only two." _

"_We are only allowed two; there is a clear contrast between black and white, good and evil."_

"_But can't there be a grey area, why do the two roads have to contrast each other?" _

"_Because son, we _are_ the grey area, roads are roads, but humans… our tendency to cut clear into a third unprecedented path is uncanny." _

"_But if we are the grey area what difference does it make choosing a predisposed path, if we can make our own?"_

Exactly_._

* * *

"_These Spirits will be the death of me!"_

"_Dad?" _

"_Anthony, there are certain things Starks' are predisposed for: genius and alcoholism."_

"_I… don't understand."_

"_In the XY group of our family, there has always been genius and drunkenness. They seem to go hand in hand, ever since the first great, great, great, great, great, great, multiplied exponentially, grand Stark._

"_I tried to resist the sirens call, but these Spirits… they will be the death of me… and you if you're not careful." _

"_I'll be careful dad." _

Famous last words.

* * *

"_Mr. Stark, fancy seeing you here… following in the footsteps of yo' ol' man I reckon?"_

Silence.

"_As smart as you is yo' ain' never been able to resis' the bottle."_

An abundance of silence. No words would be able to describe the trueness of the declaration.

"_I give ya' mmh, ten more yea's. Reckon by then it ain' even matter if you is drunk or not-_

The difference would be too microscopic to understand within the naked eye.

* * *

_Ten years later_

The streets of New York smelt like smog and smoke. The smog covered the sky thickly as it outlined the clear path between city life and the factories that produced the smog. The smog acted like a shield, a protective cover, no one could see through it, no one could see below it. A symbiotic relationship between the inhabitants of New York -the ones who were willing to sacrifice the delicate tissue in their lungs for the protective cover- and the smog.

There lay a man, a handsome man, on a piece of cardboard. His face was barely recognizable to the people who once knew him, at the ripe young age of thirty-four, he looked sixty. His face was dirty with smog, filth, and the thoughts of a failed man. He held a bottle of scotch in that brown paper bag, his only companion in the streets of New York on this late hour. If you could imagine the filth of his clothes- similar to the condition of the dumpster in the back alley to the right- you would imagine that the _flies_ wouldn't want to rest on him in fear of getting dirty.

It was once a nice suit, and expensive suit, the suit you wore to cocktail parties, the one that held the secret pockets on the inside for a pen or a flask. Possibly both.

But the man, the handsome man, with the guilt and filth covered face, sat very still holding the bottle of scotch with the last ounce of liquid. He tipped it back, it would have to do for tonight, because the night would be cold and he would be warm. But when the sun rose over the city and the smog protected him from the worst of rays, he would stand up again, fold his cardboard, and device a plan that would grant him access to another bottle for another night, when the sun set, and it was cold again. And he… he would be warm…

The feet's of pedestrians walked across his line of sight; he calculated the persons worth on the amount of dirt each individual allowed their shoes to accumulate, the more dirt, the more personality, however, it also meant the less care for their person. The less dirt, the less personality, which meant wealth, with more care for their person, but not their _personality. _

I suppose you could say- judging from the shoes on the man's feet- that he lacked all care for his person, but had a great deal of personality. For a person who arbitrarily remained inebriated 99% of the time, it was something to look forward to.

He was a man that lacked personality once, the call of the siren was too strong however, and like Odysseus he fell to their mighty songs, but unlike our great hero, he never had a crew to strap him to a pole and keep him with his wits about him. So, as time progressed, he developed a personality, and forgot to care for his person.

He shivered slightly as the cold of New York in the early stages of winter seeped in. Altogether, dawn 'til dusk he had counted 10,753 pairs of feet adding up to a grand total of 21,506 feet to fit those shoes.

He could separate them even further; describe (in his opinion) which one had personality and which lacked. You could not have one without the other, and you certainly could not have both or lack both for that matter.

But his head hurt, and he began to feel the first tendrils of fear creep up his spine, and he knew it was time for action.

Sobering up was worse than death.

The idea of letting go of his Spirit- not the holy kind mind you- but the physical kind, the one that kept him warm when physics dictated otherwise, was unthinkable.

So he stood up, stretched his arms wide and far and folded his makeshift bed.

He had plotted the course already in his head; all that he needed now was to execute it, as flawlessly as he had before in several thousand other occasions. He's been doing this for fourteen years; he should be good at it now.

So the plan went by, without so much as a hitch, and today on October 17th, 1959, our man has been able to obtain his Spirit once more.

That _creak- pop_ sound will always be music to his ears, and even though he's always preferred his drink cold… beggars, in this case, can't be choosers.

So he found another place to rest, a quiet dome, where (nursing his Spirit slowly) he drifted off into an intoxicated sleep, or after a while of being bound to the Spirit's feet, a normal sleep.

For what was once abnormal, has become routine, and what was once routine, has become normal, and what has become normal, is now life.

And what was once life, is now abnormal.

"The end is near." He found himself saying, which surprised him. He hadn't heard his own voice in months, with no one to speak to there really was no reason to exert force.

However, as he looked up at the night sky, on another day, in the same city, he contemplated his mortality. He felt something within himself shut down, and he wondered if maybe a trip to the doctor would do him justice.

He opened that secret pocket and produced a 100 dollar bill. Having saved it for a rainy day, he let it go, and the wind immediately picked it up, like a greedy child.

"The end… is… near."

The brown-paper bag clad bottle rolled out of his hands and continued its path slowly to the main street.

His outstretched hand caught the heel of an unsuspecting woman, and she cursed, as she flew down unto her hands and knees in order to save her face from the fall.

"Filthy bum you and your-

She stopped immediately, frozen of the sight of the man on the ground, the curly brown hair shaped haphazardly across his still handsome face, those brown eyes, the ones that tasted like chocolate as you gazed upon them.

"Oh my God." Her mouth uttered as she recognized the face lying down on the floor, the face she had forgotten for the past five years, the one who left her in order to search for his Spirits, the man she had thought she loved long before she knew what true love was.

"Tony!"

* * *

**A/N: Hello! I hope you enjoyed that prologue, a little love story set in the old 60's one of my favorite time periods, battling the 20's. I am, however, no expert in the 60's and there won't be much use for my expertise (or lack thereof). **

**R&R, tell me what ya' think, should I continue? Would it pike your interest?**


	2. Ch1: The End

Ch1: The End

Anthony Edward Stark is his given name; Tony is merely the name he liked to be associated with. There were plenty of reasons why he chose this name over the others. It could simply be that the mention of Anthony brought back suppressed memories he'd rather not dig up, it could be that Edward sounded too formal- and Tony was anything but in his current state- or that Stark (formerly _Mr._ Stark) was his father.

Whatever the case may be, his name was Tony.

* * *

He drifted in and out of consciousness, becoming very aware of his surroundings and then forgetting them the instance he closed his eyes. He had a foreboding feeling in the back of his mind of a voice he had come to forget with the years, the distance, and the Spirits.

When he finally came to, it was with a jerk of the inside of his mind, thrusting him (not too kindly) back into reality.

The instant he opened his eyes he wished for death.

The hospital room looked like any other hospital room he had ever had the displeasure in attending: Purgatory.

He was exaggerating of course, the bed was mildly comfortable, well better than concrete, the room was lit up nicely by the tall window to the far left, and there was a desk directly in front of his hospital bed with a single flower placed on it. But right now was not the time to admire the décor.

He rolled his head around the pain suddenly hitting him like the weight of a thousand anvils.

"Nurse." He was sure he grunted something like that but his plea fell on deaf ears for no one arrived to his rescue.

He tried to lift his arms and to his horror found them restrained to the bed. Too many emotions were rolling in at once; the most pressing one however, was the feeling of dread crawling up his stomach and through his throat.

If he didn't leave the confines of his bed soon there would need to be cleanup in room (he looked around for any indication of what room number he currently resided in) No. 256.

"Nurse." He was sure his voice was stronger now, he tried- in vain- against the restrains pushing the bile and vomit down his throat with a shuddering breath and a disgustingly thick swallow. His throat was dry, very dry. He needed a particular liquid to quench it, and something told him the hospital wasn't about to give him his beloved Spirits, and he was sure the alcohol they used here wasn't meant to be ingested.

"Nurs-

But it was too late. He tried to ignore the humiliation that came along with the smell, who knew, maybe he was already dead, and there was no nurse, no confines, only his transgressions and his punishment.

But the nurse did enter then, her short, brown, hair perfectly cut, her white scrubs and green over jacket rustling behind her. She was of short stature, he noted, but her blue eyes held some strength he seldom saw in females of his day. He looked down at her shoes.

They were dirty.

He smiled.

* * *

He wasn't sure how long he slept or stayed in the hospital bed, they had released his arms and legs but he felt no need to move a muscle, his head hurt just as much (and sometimes even more) as the day he awoke.

He dubbed that day The End because he had been sure it would be his last. He wondered if his brain would ever be healed and stopped himself immediately; he didn't know who put him in here and didn't necessarily care, as soon as he was out, to the liquor store it was and back to his old profession. A bit stagnant yes but Tony had stopped caring years ago.

Ms. Catty, his nurse, entered with his lunch that day alongside a phonograph, Tony raised his eyebrow but kept his comment to himself.

He seldom spoke to Ms. Catty, he rather enjoyed the silence. Once upon a time his voice had been more influential than that of his fathers. Nowadays he conformed to silence, reveling in the fact that listening was more important than being listened to.

"Good afternoon Mr. Stark, I believe some old tunes will liven your mood." Ms. Catty drawled with that accent that wasn't quite Yankee but wasn't quite anything else either.

Tony wondered how old when he placed the bland food to his lips and slowly ate.

The piano started softly and he recognized the tune before the words began flowing,

He remembered this song fondly from his childhood, when his father used to embrace his mother and twirl her around singing along with the words…

_Midnight, with the stars and you,_

_Midnight and a rendez-vous,_

_Your arms held a message tender,_

_Saying "I surrender, all my love to you"_

_Midnight brought us sweet romance,_

_I know all my whole life through_

_I'll be remembering you whatever else I do,_

_Midnight with the stars and you…_

"I would appreciate it nurse, if you would shut the phonograph off, I understand your intentions were kind but I would much rather sit in silence, my head s'not healed yet." Nor will it be anytime soon.

It took Ms. Catty a couple of seconds to register the words since the voice seldom spoke; she composed herself, however, and complied.

"My apologies Mr. Stark, I was not aware of your condition, please excuse the interruption." With that she left and he was left alone with the silence, and a half empty plate.

* * *

He was sure months went by when in fact only three days had transpired; his sense of time was dulled with the constant headache.

On the tenth hour of the third day there was a knock on the door. Ms. Catty normally stepped inside without preamble so he surmised it wasn't her.

He opened his eyes slowly to the door and informed his unknown guest to step inside.

To say he was surprised would be an understatement.

"Pepper." He barely whispered his nickname for her, he had given it to her because her kisses had been so very… spicy.

"Tony…" She trailed off; her decorum was stiff as a stalk and just as breakable too. She held her white clutch purse with an iron grip and he noticed the ring on her left finger, not the one he had once bought her of course, but one could only hope.

"Why am I here, why are _you_ here?" Tony knew the answers but he had to voice the questions anyway. "_How did you find me?_" he finally asked an incredulous look on his face. The last time they had spoken (shouted, thrown things at each other really) was the day before their wedding, when she had called it off on behalf of his Spirits.

"You were dying on the corner of 54th, I'm here to check you out, and I tripped over your outstretched arm." She replied efficiently as possible, he turned his head towards the window and grimaced, not one of his most stellar moments he supposed.

"Tony- here it goes- you need hel-

"Enough Pepper, I have help, his name is Scotch, and I miss him, so if you could please." He motioned with his hand for her to go and sign the papers for his release. He didn't know why he simply hadn't walked out, probably something to do with the massive migraine he has been suffering silently for days.

"Anthony –he flinched- Tony, look at me when I'm talking to you," he turned his head slightly looking at her but _not_ looking. "The last time I saw you, you were at the peak of your profession, albeit inebriated one-hundred percent of the time, but rich 'til kingdom come nonetheless. When I saw you three days ago, you were dead to yourself and to the world, even your so called _Spirit_ had run away.

"Your hair was filthy; your once-handsome face _barely _recognizable, your clothes reeked of years in filth and alcohol, and don't even get me started on your shoes!" She listed all his faults, all his failures until he snapped.

"Enough! Yes I failed, yes I was a fuck-up good-for-nothing rat on the streets of 54th, but I had personality-

"Don't make me laugh, personality-

"Yes _personality_! And you, you took that away from me." He finished his voice thick with emotion.

"Tony, you were _dying_, whatever it is that you thought you had accomplished with said _personality_ is worth nothing to me if I could save your life." Pepper replied sounding sincere in her justification.

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe I _did_ want to die, that maybe this was the end and it was my time to go, you gave me another chance in vain, because as soon as I leave this place I'm finding the nearest liquor store and drowning in my Spirits. The angels will cry tonight!" Tony nearly shouted lifting his arms into the sky.

"I am going to ignore your ridiculousness, stay put I'll be right back." Pepper stated turning on her heel and walking away briskly.

"Yes sir." He mock saluted.

* * *

True to his word he departed from the back of the liquor store with as many bottles as his person could hold. The _creak- pop _was just as he remembered it, and the sound made him groan in anticipation for what was to transpire in a matter of seconds. As he tilted the bottle back to his pursed lips he hungrily drank down the warm liquid and (dare he admit it?) moaned at the burn as it cascaded towards his belly sitting there like a king and seeping into his bloodstream, straight to his brain and calmed the raging headache, the alleviation was so instantaneous he almost cried.

"You are pathetic, I do wonder if your face ever looked like that when we kissed." Tony jumped at the unexpected voice, shielding his precious cargo with his body.

Pepper stood there with a black car behind her (he hadn't even noticed the sound of the car approaching) a look of pure disgust and pity written on her face.

"I may be pathetic, but at least I'm in love." Tony spat taking another swig at the bottle; he must have struck a nerve because her face closed off completely and her jaw locked, the only indication that she was truly pissed.

"Get in the car." Pepper said (more like ordered) stepping aside to let Tony enter, when he didn't move a muscle in her direction she cleared her throat.

"Oh, you mean me? No thank you, I have a date with Scotch; he's taking me out to dinner later." Tony stated fingering the brown bag that held his precious liquor.

"Tony, get in the car or I will have to see to it that you will be forced in, either way, you'll get inside." Pepper spoke through her teeth the look in her eyes killing any more smart comments Tony had up his sleeve, which, knowing him, were a lot.

So he acquiesced.

* * *

He drank silently as the road passed by in what he presumed was regular old New York at 11:45 A.M.

He could feel Pepper's eyes on him, and frankly, that's all he _could_ feel. He had hurt her many years ago, and he had felt bad, had felt his loneliness, then when he decided he was done feeling them he discarded them, let them go to waste as other feelings overtook him and then the grand feeling of all feeling. The _not_ feeling. Another comfort his Spirits gave him was the numbness, debilitating as his headache might seem, it was nothing compared to the psychological pain of withdrawal, he loved his Spirits, didn't think he could live a day without them much less three. He drank with a bit more urgency, the nature of his thoughts dictating that he should consume as much as he could. Because this was the end.

They pulled up near a six-story apartment building in a relative secluded area. The sign directly ahead read: REHABILITATION & COUNSELING, Dr. Nick Fury and Co.

"Really Pepper, _rehab_, might as well give up now, because _suga', it ain' gonna work_." Tony stated sarcastically cradling the bottles in his lap. He swore sometimes, if he could make love to his Spirits he would.

"Not with that attitude." Pepper retorted.

"Not with any kind of attitude, Pepper, I don't know what you want to get out of this: a man you thought you once knew? A pat in the back for being the only one to break the Stark cycle? A kiss?" Tony exclaimed throwing one of his hands up and swinging back the other.

"Tony- she sighed in exasperation her calm demeanor cracking- all I want for you is to be healthy, and happy, not because I'm some self-proclaimed savior but because I care. You need help, and I'm providing so take advantage, and at least try, if not for me then for a challenge. I challenge you to be the one Stark that can break the cycle." Pepper said an unquenchable fire in her eyes.

"My mother had once dared my father to do something similar, years later, he almost broke her spine by hitting her with a chair, I'm just like him, and he was just like his father, and so forth and so on. Pepper, this _thing _is some_thing_ we have no control over. So let me go back to that corner on 54th and regain my personality." Tony said finality to his tone.

"I don't believe that."

"I don't care."

"Well _I_ do! Listen, at least go inside, try it out, I'm paying for it, and if you decide to drop out go ahead. But I know you're a bit curious, and if I remember correctly once a Stark gets curious he investigates. Am I wrong?" Pepper asked knowingly. Tony looked at her, looked at the door, took a swig and stepped onto the curb.

_Might as well_, he thought, _but this was the beginning of the end. _

* * *

_**So~ how do ya' like that? Please Review, it means the world to me. **_

_**Midnight, the Stars, and You by Ray Noble and Al Bowlly, this story's namesake. Please check it out it's a wonderful tune, old, but gold! **_


End file.
